


The Sweater Curse

by lavenderjacquard



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Universe, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, fluff and knitting, hange actually knows how to knit, sweater knitting is serious business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 02:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderjacquard/pseuds/lavenderjacquard
Summary: Despite being well aware of the dangers, Hange decided to knit Levi a sweater.
Relationships: Hange Zoë & Levi, Hange Zoë/Levi, the tiniest bit of hange/moblit
Comments: 27
Kudos: 166





	The Sweater Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this is based on the Levi/Hange/Erwin sweater art because finally my two hobbies combined!!
> 
> The sweater curse is real, it has a Wikipedia article.

It was seven in the morning and sunlight was just beginning to stream into her office window, and Hange still hadn’t finished the final sleeve of the sweater. She’d been up all night, knitting furiously, blazing through the remainder of the front piece, but there was one sleeve left to go and five hours until her self-imposed deadline. And then, even more to do.

It was the day before his birthday, and Hange was behind. She was unsurprised, but growing frantic.

Many people knew that Hange was a skilled knitter, but few were aware that knitting was a science in its own right. There were only two stitches, the knit and purl, but there were endless possibilities to how you used those two stitches. Depending on your needle size, the thickness and structure of the yarn, and what pattern you followed, you could end up with something bulky and warm or gossamer and airy. Hange didn’t have a preference, she would knit with anything; she used ropy coils of hardy wool with as much joy as the thin fluffy angora that broke if you looked at it wrong. 

The spinners up north had taken to giving her their deadstock as a kind of thanks for her service in the Scouts. She was happy that it was free and enjoyed seeing their smiles as they loaded her with various colors and textures of yarn, and like magic, she created a menagerie of scarves.

Hange only knit scarves. They were straightforward, one long rectangle, and when she memorized the pattern she was following she could let her mind grapple with whatever question it needed answered, and once she’d found that answer she’d glance back down at her hands and see that she’d produced a foot of fabric.

There were so many questions she needed answered that her production of scarves was staggering. Despite following difficult patterns to slow herself down, they still flew off her needles. There were plush ones with snaking cables; floaty wraps with artfully spaced gaps to mimic leaves and vines; skinny ones with deep rivulets of ribbing.

Hange’s eyes darted from her needles to the clock next to her. 09:00. The sun had risen but was still blocked by the walls. The light gleamed off the fresh snow blanketing the streets outside; the citizens of Trost were already awake, shoveling those streets. She was halfway through, past the sleeve ribbing and far into the arm, but with many rows to go before shaping the sleeve cap.

It was insanity, Hange knew, subjecting herself to the particular tortures of sweater knitting. Why bother with the fiddly increasing and decreasing stitches, combining multiple parts to make one whole, and the risk that in the end it wouldn’t even fit? During these fits of self-doubt Hange tried to tell herself,  _ it’s a challenge! Expand your skills! _ But that was a lie; it wasn’t the reason at all. And she didn’t get the satisfaction of owning a beautiful sweater in the end. It wasn’t even for her.

Though Hange knit scarves at a prodigious rate, she never kept any for herself. She actually didn’t like the fabric on her neck; she found it itchy. This was to the benefit of everyone else in the Scouts, who gathered around her like moths to a flame when they saw she was nearing the end of a scarf. She made sure to finish them alone, where she weaved in all the loose ends of yarn and washed the scarf gently to even the stitches and allow the yarn to bloom. After it was completed, Hange folded it up with care and ran her fingers over the stitches one last time, to thank it for nurturing her thoughts and to wish it well in its next life. Then, she left it on a table somewhere, for whomever found it first to claim it. On more than one occasion a mob waited for her outside her office door.

“Hange, these are incredible, where did you learn to do this?” Scouts asked her as she sat in her favorite chair by the fire, notebook and pencil on the armrest, needles lightly pushing yarn through the loops, in and out, in and out.

“My mother taught me,” she always said.

Despite her skill, Hange only knit scarves. Socks were intricate and required the thinnest of needles, and the Scouts had no need for hats that would fly off their heads in battle. She’d knit two sweaters in her lifetime, and that had been enough. Besides, knitting sweaters for other people was a bad idea. It was like the desire to do good for someone else put a curse on the sweater; the recipient would do something terrible like break up with you, or some horrible tragedy would befall them.

It was true, she knew, because her mother had knitted her father four sweaters and he’d still left them.

The first sweater she knit was for her father, burgundy and lumpy, that she’d started a few months after he’d gone and finished just as the icicles formed on their rooftop. He’d taken it from her and smiled, but he still didn’t come home.

The second she knit for her mother, nine years later, a little cardigan made of a fuzzy lilac yarn that she hoped would keep her mother’s frail skin and fragile bones warm. She’d sewn on tiny silver buttons with exquisite carvings of leaves; it had taken her a month to save up for them. Hange’s mother had smiled too, and a tear rolled down her cheek and into the tufts of white hair she had left. She’d died a week later, and they’d taken the cardigan off and dressed her in her best clothes, oversized on her sickly frame. Hange wasn’t sure where that sweater was now.

Hange blinked hard. The memories of her parents had come up and pricked at her eyes. She looked down again and she was finally at the top of the sleeve, ready to turn a flat rectangle into a proper sleeve, but it was also 11:00.

It was lunacy. Here she was, nearly crying over the sweaters she’d knitted for her parents as she knit one more sweater for someone else. A lot of people seemed to think she was crazy, because her mind sprinted in a dozen directions all at once, but Hange was used to her way of thinking. It had gotten her far in the Scouts. But now, the doubt in her brain crept down her neck and into her spine, the black flower that blossomed two months ago when the farmer in Utopia handed her a basket heavy with skeins of pristine white yarn and laughed at her shocked face.

“This is too much, I can’t take this from you!” she protested.

“Promise me you’ll knit a sweater for someone special.” The old man winked and grinned, revealing a missing canine.

Later, when Hange gently unlooped the skeins of soft yarn and enlisted Moblit’s arms to wind them into balls, she ran the fiber through her fingers, rolling the twist between them. It was dense and smooth, strong enough to stand up to the demands of a sweater. And there was so much of it, too. She could knit two scarves out of it, maybe three if she was mindful, but it felt wrong not to use it for a sweater. It seemed like the wool grew on the sheep itself for that very purpose.

When that farmer had told her to knit a sweater for someone special, Levi flew straight to the front of her mind, and she’d twitched, face flaring. He never even looked at the scarves she knitted, so what made her think that he’d want an entire sweater? She hoped desperately it looked like she was shivering in the cold and the wind had irritated her face, but that farmer wasn’t fooled.

It was insanity to knit Levi a sweater. He was so picky about what he wore, always adjusting his jacket so it sat properly, and he babied his shoes, spending hours polishing them until they shone. It was odd, seeing someone normally so harsh treat his clothes with such care. 

Also, the yarn was white, and white was a difficult color. Sure, it was easy to see the stitches and know what you were doing, unlike black, but it got smudged so easily and was a magnet for dirt. Though, if there was anyone who knew how to avoid filth, it would be Levi.

_ Sweaters are cursed _ , that dark voice in the back of her mind said.

But there was something about him, lately, that seemed cold - not frigid, because he always had a prickly demeanor, but shrunken, wan, and listless. The breach of Wall Maria only months earlier had unsettled them all, but Hange didn’t expect it to strike Levi so deeply. He spent a lot of time outside, running, to whatever it was that settled his nerves, but Hange didn’t know what it was. She wondered sometimes if he’d been left out in the cold for too long, and if it was possible to never warm back up again. He needed something to keep him warm, no matter where he was, to keep his heart from doing that creaking thing that always happened to hers when the temperature dropped.

Besides, it wasn’t like they were  _ together _ , so the sweater curse didn’t count. Right?

So against her best judgment and with a silly little smile on her face Hange flipped through her mother’s old book of patterns and picked out a simple pullover with a thick ribbed collar. The body was stockinette, a plain sturdy stitch, but there was a little cable that trailed up each sleeve. She thought he’d appreciate that, wearing something unassuming but with tiny details that only those who dared come close enough would see. Though, the man in the drawing of the sweater had to be a foot taller than Levi. She’d giggled at that as she cast the stitches on her needles.

There was a knock at her door. Hange answered without looked up; she knew from the footsteps it was Moblit. The man entered, and she saw at the top of her vision that his arms were filled with books. He had difficulty closing the door.

“Hange, I found those books from the library you were looking for-”

“No time, Moblit! I need you to get me the biggest bowl you can find and fill it with cold water.” Hange had reached the end of the sleeve and was preparing to bind off the stitches.

“Okay, but for what?” Moblit said, face inquisitive. She loved that even if he wanted to question her orders, he still completed them.

“You’ll see! Go!”

Moblit dropped the stack of books at her desk, already overflowing with papers, and ran off.

Hange dropped the last stitch off her needle, one long loop remaining. It always amazed her that sweaters and scarves were really just one long thread wrapped around itself and chained into infinite loops. If she wanted she could tug at the yarn and undo days of work in an hour.

A drunk Scout had done that, once, to a scarf she was knitting and left for five minutes to get a cup of tea. An entire foot of fabric was gone in an instant. She’d thrown her tea at him and left him with a burn, which she thought was probably punishment enough, but then Levi had kicked the man in the head and given him a concussion.

Hange had never felt so special in her life. 

She cut the yarn with her teeth and threaded the yarn through the loop, closing it off and completing the knitting. It was a bad habit to cut the yarn with her teeth, she knew, but earlier that month a Scout borrowed her scissors to cut a few loose threads on his uniform and never returned them. He’d died a week later, so the scissors died with him.

There was another knock at her door, Moblit again. Despite the fact that she always told him he didn’t have to knock, he always did.

“Hange! There are no bowls! They’re serving soup for lunch and are using all of them,” Moblit said, panting.

“Shit!” Hange dropped the fabric to her lap. “I need to block this!”

“You need to what?”

But she had already brushed past him out the door, stalking to the kitchens. Moblit scampered after her.

Hange was at the kitchen in minutes, and she scanned the room. There were three Scout recruits clad in aprons, scurrying back and forth between cauldrons heated over fires and pouring soup into metal bowls. There were at least twelve bowls, all large enough for her purpose.  _ Perfect.  _ Hange grinned and rubbed her hands together when she found Nifa, and she ran over, narrowly avoiding the searing cauldrons.

“Hey, Nifa! I need this,” she said, jabbing at the large metal bowl nearest them.

Nifa looked up from stirring at her cauldron, face dewy.

“Those are the serving bowls! I need to get five out in two minutes,” she said, eyes wide.

“Look, Nifa, I don’t want to have to do this, but I am your superior and I need this bowl.” She adjusted her glasses and raised her chin, trying to look official.

“Well, what am I gonna do with all this soup? This one’s totally full!”

Hange tapped her forehead. “Think a little, Nifa, this is all lentil soup? Just pour a little of it in each of the other bowls.”

“Then they’ll run over.” She said it like Hange was stupid.

“Not if you’re careful!”

Nifa sighed. “Look, I’ll do it if you give me your next scarf.”

“Absolutely! Now hurry!”

Nifa lifted the bowl Hange needed, awkward in mitted hands, and began to pour a bit of soup from the bowl into the others.

“Can we move with a little urgency, Nifa?” she asked, hating the neediness in her voice.

Nifa poured faster, little dribbles of soup pouring out onto the floor.

“Nifa! What in the name of these three good walls are you  _ doing _ ?” Chef Botega’s voice boomed into the kitchen, echoing, and the other Scouts jumped.

Nifa squeaked, nearly dropping the bowl “I apologize, Chef Botega, Hange needed this bowl…”

Chef Botega marched over to them, sweating and face puffy, grasping a knife that dripped with blood. Nifa’s hands shook and the liquid slopped in the bowl. Chef Botega glowered at Nifa and his knuckles were so white that Hange thought he might commit murder right in front of her. But just as Hange was about to take a step forward and move Nifa out of harm’s way, his bloodshot eyes swung to her.

“ _ Hange _ ! Get out of my kitchen! No one gets early access!”

“I am so sorry, Chef! I have an experiment that requires a bowl and I will return it as soon as possible!”

“Over my dead body you will! Stop distracting my recruits!”

Hange stood up straight and saluted the chef. “Chef Botega, you are a brilliant cook and a connoisseur of flavors, and from one scientist to another I admire you deeply. It would be an honor to use one of the tools you use with such skill.”

The chef was silent. Hange felt Moblit and Nifa’s eyes on her. She still had her fist to her heart, but was prepared to dart away at any second.

But Chef Botega let out a pathetic whine and the knife slipped out of his hand, clattering to the floor. He brought his hands to his face to swipe at the tears forming in his eyes and left a streak of blood on his cheek. Hange remained still, shocked.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Chef Botega said, sniveling. “All you Scouts do is complain that there’s no meat and that you want more, more, more, and none of you ever  _ thanked  _ me!”

Hange took a few steps forward, the scent of the soup and his sweat washing over her. “Please forgive them, Chef Botega, us Scouts are a single-minded group. Though, is that cardamom I smell?”

“Yes! Thank God one of you has a palate!” 

The chef scraped more tears away, face as red as the smudge of blood. He clamped one damp hand on her shoulder.

“You can use the bowl, but I want it back tonight,” he said, cheeks quivering. 

“Yes, sir!”

Chef Botega turned back to Nifa.

“You heard her! More urgency!”

In five minutes Hange had her clean bowl filled with cold water. She walked back to her office at a clipped pace, water splashing out the sides and chilling her hands, while Moblit struggled to keep up. When she reached her office at the top of the stairs, she saw with horror that her door was open and voices drifted out.

“Moblit! You didn’t close the door?”

“But you said you wanted to keep an open door policy!”

Hange cursed herself and her desire for someone, anyone, to talk to her about Titan anatomy and how they possibly absorbed sunlight and why they didn’t seem to leave behind much excrement for dissection.

She walked through and nearly dropped the bowl when she saw Petra and Oluo standing over her chair, examining the knit pieces.

“This is beautiful, Hange! Is this a sweater?” Petra asked, awestruck.

“Make me one! I’ll pay you whatever you want,” Oluo said, poking at the sleeve so hard his finger nearly went through the stitches. His face was suspiciously flushed.

“Put that down! Are you  _ drunk _ ?” Hange asked.

“For your information, I recently encountered the rarest of lagers so of course I had to try it as soon as I had a day off,” Oluo said, nose pointed in the air. He hiccuped violently and rocked backwards.

“God, Oluo, you are such a loser, it’s barely afternoon,” Petra said, irritated. “Come on, we’re annoying Hange.”

“Wait, before you leave, I actually need something from you,” Hange said as she knelt down to set the bowl on the floor. “I need a blanket from one of you, to let this dry on.” She submerged the pieces into the water, squeezing to fully saturate them.

“No way! It’s cold!” Oluo said.

“Wait, though. Hange, who’s this sweater for?” Petra asked.

Hange’s throat clenched and all she could see were the bubbles floating to the top of the water. “Nobody, uh, myself?”

“Hange, you’re turning so red! Please, please, tell me!” Petra had sniffed her out and was digging for the answer.

“Err...Levi.” 

_ This thing isn’t even done and it’s already cursed me _ , Hange thought, crushing one sleeve harder than necessary.

Petra’s face lit up and her eyes glistened; she was a sucker for any hint of romance. “Oh my God, Hange, you’re knitting him a sweater, that is so  _ cute _ !” She was nearly squealing.

“Shh! It’s not a big deal!” Hange said, hands still in the cold water. They were beginning to sting.

“Ohh, sure,  _ okay _ . Well, you can take mine, but I want whatever scarf you knit next,” Petra said, devious smile on her face.

“Well, you’d be next in line after Nifa.”

“Put me ahead of her! You gotta fight for him, Hange!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll need it in a half hour.”

“Come on, Oluo, let’s go before you puke on Hange’s labor of love,” Petra said as she dragged Oluo towards the door. “I want mine to be pink!” she called from the hallway once they’d exited.

With them gone, Hange heaved a sigh of relief. She turned to Moblit, who was staring after Petra and Oluo like a hawk.

“Moblit, guard this with your life. I need to find some towels,” she said, jumping to her feet.

Moblit nodded solemnly and sat before the bowl, observing it like he did their specimens. He seemed utterly convinced the sweater could move on its own.

Hange darted out the door and sprinted down the stairs, past the kitchens to the women’s baths. They were empty, thankfully, but the wooden shelves where the folded towels usually sat were empty. Panting, Hange angrily swiped at the steam on her glasses.

“Hange? Are you okay? You look like you just ran ten miles,” Nanaba said, walking out of the sauna. She had two towels around her torso, one draped around her shoulders, and one twisted in a turban on her head.

“Nanaba! Where did all the towels go?”

“Huh, the laundress got sick so I guess they’re behind,” Nanaba said, wiping the moisture off one ear.

“I need two! Please!”

Nanaba grimaced. “Hange, it snowed last night and I’m freezing!”

“Nanaba, you don’t need four! And you barely have any hair to dry!” Hange said, trying desperately not to roll her eyes.

“Says you, you never bathe.”

“Nanaba, it’s really important.” Hange clasped her hands and bowed her head to Nanaba.

“Huh. Well, if it is, you can have two.” Nanaba shrugged off the towel at her shoulders and unwrapped the second layer around her torso. “But, I want whatever scarf you finish next,” she continued, rubbing the towel wrapped around her head.

“Come on, Nanaba! Nifa and Petra both already claimed it!”

Nanaba snorted. “I’ve been here years longer than those two! I’m first or you don’t get these towels.”

Hange raked her hands through her hair. “Okay, okay, fine.”

Hange ran back to her office with the towels and found that Moblit had not moved, still glaring at the sweater in the bowl of water. Relieved that her sweater had not been tampered with, Hange crouched down and picked up each piece from the bath and squeezed out the water. She placed the pieces flat on the towels and carefully rolled them up to create a long cylinder. She then stood on each towel roll, stepping on them to soak up the excess water from the damp fabric. This was done to expedite the drying process, and to stamp out all the demons she’d accidentally summoned while cursing at her knitting. Hange’s mother had always let her help with that, and the two laughed and laughed as they stomped on the towels.

“Hange! Here’s my blanket-” Petra ran in the room, but nearly dropped the blanket when she saw Hange stepping on the towels. One sleeve had flopped out of the towel, pathetic.

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Petra shrieked.

“Getting the water out! It needs to dry!” Hange said, temper flaring, no time to explain everything.

“But you’re standing on it!”

“Yes, my weight forces the water out!”

Petra gaped, eyes wide. “It’s like you’re  _ stepping  _ on Levi!”

Hange’s nostrils flared. “No I’m not! It’s part of the process!”

Petra sighed. “I didn’t know sweaters took such effort. Though I’d love if someone made me a sweater,” she said, a dreamy look in her eyes. “If it doesn’t work out with him, can I have it?”

“Give me that!” Hange snatched the blanket from Petra. Folding it into fours, she lay it flat on the ground next to her own folded blanket. Squatting down, she unwrapped the towels and picked up the damp pieces to lay them gently on the blankets.

“I swear to God, Hange, if my blanket smells like a wet dog after this-”

“I promise you I will buy pink yarn  _ myself  _ and make you a scarf in one week if you go away,” Hange said through gritted teeth.

“Sure thing!” Petra was gone in an instant.

Hange fell backwards, groaning. 

“Moblit, what time is it?” Hange rubbed her head; a tiny sphere was beginning to emanate pain behind one eye.

“It’s 13:45.”

“Shit! I’m behind schedule!” Hange flew back to her knees and carefully arranged the pieces to form them into the correct shapes.

“Moblit! Measuring tape!”

She heard Moblit turn on one heel and rummage through her desk. Hange concentrated on straightening all the pieces so the stitches lay flat and even and smoothing the edges so they didn’t curl up. Right as she finished, Moblit was at her side with the measuring tape.

_ Thank God for Moblit _ , she thought, not for the first time.

Consulting the schematics in the pattern book, Hange measured each piece, stretching and condensing the fabric as needed, and touched each piece gently with one finger when she was finished. She sighed, because now it was the waiting period, where it took at least a night for the pieces to fully dry. And then she had to sew them all together.

She fell back to her butt again and looked up at Moblit, dragging her palms down her face and groaning.

“I gotta go see Erwin, because he’s finally letting me talk to him about my new Titan restraint method, but I’m afraid of leaving my office since I don’t want people messing with this,” she said. “I hate to ask you to stay here and, well, protect it…”

“It’s no problem, Hange, I could use to read up on those reports I found for you,” he said with no hesitation.

Hange jumped to her feet and pressed both hands firmly on Moblit’s shoulders.

“You are a saint, Moblit! A saint!” She lifted one hand off him to raise a finger. “Make sure you keep the furnace on, it needs to be dry in here!”

She rushed out the door.

***

Despite the fact that she kept her office as warm and dry as possible, and that she slept with only one blanket in the notoriously cold women’s barracks and felt like all the lubrication in her joints had dried up overnight, and that it was already afternoon, the sweater was still damp. Hange started panicking.

“Moblit! How the hell is this not dry yet? I made the conditions perfect!” She shook her assistant’s shoulders, her eyes threatening tears.

“Hange, it’s been so cold lately, you can’t blame yourself-”

“But it won’t be ready in time! I can’t sew it wet! Sweaters really are cursed!”

‘What are you talking about, cursed-”

“Hey, what’s going on, Hange? What are you yelling about?” Petra entered her office, inquisitive.

“It’s still wet!”

Petra gasped. “No! What are you going to  _ do _ ?”

“I don’t know! It won’t be dry in time at this rate!”

Oluo ambled into the room. “What are you women  _ shrieking  _ about-”

“Hange’s sweater isn’t dry, Oluo!” Petra turned to Oluo with a dramatic sweep.

“Hah! Weren’t you supposed to be smart, Hange?” Oluo asked, smug. “Certainly you-”

“Stop being such a dick, Oluo!” Petra swung her leg back and kicked Oluo in the shin, right as he opened his mouth to speak. As if in slow motion, Hange’s eyes widened as Oluo’s teeth snapped down hard on his tongue. The man howled in pain, but Petra was unsympathetic.

“God, again, Oluo, maybe learn to speak like a normal person?” 

Oluo blubbered a protest, and a few drops of blood dribbled from his lips. Hange recoiled at the thought of his red blood on her white sweater.

“Oluo! You are far too close to Hange’s sweater!” Moblit lunged forward and pushed Oluo out of the room and directly into Nanaba.

“What is all the screaming about in here?” she asked.

“Nanaba, Hange’s sweater isn’t dry!” Petra exclaimed.

“Why does that matter? She has other sweaters.”

“No, Nanaba, she’s  _ knitting  _ it!”

Nanaba gasped. “For who?”

“Levi!”

Nanaba looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes narrowed and a sly smile crept onto her face. “Wow, okay then,  _ wow _ .” She drew out the syllables, enjoying the moment. “I, uh, didn’t see that one coming, but you know, I think I can get behind it,” she said, finger on her chin. “Though, Hange, he might be a little short for you.”

“Nanaba, love is not  _ vain _ !” Petra scowled.

“Stop yelling, I need to think!” Hange slapped both hands to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. 

“I need a big fireplace, one that has enough room so that I can hold up the pieces in front of it,” she said, breathing steadily, calming herself down.

“Hey, you know who has a huge fireplace? Miche,” Nanaba said. “And he never locks his office door.”

Moblit blanched. “Hange, we don’t want to get in trouble...”

But Hange had already bent down to gather the pieces of fabric, and when she dashed out the door with the others, he had no choice but to follow.

Just as Nanaba promised, Miche’s office was unlocked, and the fireplace inside was massive. Hange moaned in relief as Oluo brought the fire roaring to life.

“Hange, you can’t hold all four pieces at once, let me take one,” Petra said.

Nanaba picked one up as well. “Just hold it up until it’s dry, right?”

“Moblit, please take the other one, since I wouldn’t trust Oluo not to drop his in the fire,” Petra said, shooting a look at Oluo’s back. He responded by violently jabbing a log.

The four of them crouched at the fire, Hange and Moblit holding up the front and back while Petra and Nanaba each held a sleeve. The warming sensation on Hange’s face was pleasant, and she felt the shredded nerves that had started fraying yesterday begin to ease.

As Oluo and Petra bickered on and Nanaba and Moblit discussed something in murmured voices, Hange searched for and found the sweater’s secret, the one tiny mistake she’d left behind, a right-leaning decrease that should have leaned left. Normally she fixed major errors like a miscrossed cable or dropped stitch, but like her mother had told her, you needed to leave one mistake in to make your finished product imperfect. The gods became jealous of perfect things, and would steal away anyone wearing something so perfect.

Hange always thought it was a little presumptuous to assume her knitting was perfect, and never mind the fact that she didn’t believe in gods, but she made sure to keep this one in. Maybe, just maybe, that little mistake would keep him safe.

Just as Petra announced that her fabric felt dry, the door banged open and Miche walked in. Hange grit her teeth, again, her jaw twinging.

“Why are you all sitting here around my fireplace? You look like a bunch of refugees,” Miche said as he took off his coat and unwrapped the scarf from his neck. It was one she’d made the year before, when she wanted to try the woven technique called entrelac but only had chartreuse yellow and electric fuchsia yarn. It was a truly hideous thing made of harlequin-like diamonds, one she was embarrassed to drop off for a Scout, but Miche had stood over her chair with a menacing look on his face until she cast off the last stitch and promised she would give it to him if he left her alone.

“We’re drying a sweater, Miche, it’s very important,” Nanaba said, like he had barged into her own office.

“It looks like you’re offering up sacrifices to the fire. You could have joined the Wall Cult or something as far as I can tell,” Miche said, nose wrinkled.

“Miche, Hange is making a sweater and it needed to be dry yesterday, so can you please leave us alone?” Petra folded up her dry piece and brought it to her chest like it was precious.

“Hange, you’re knitting a sweater? Since when? I want one,” Miche said.

“It’s for Levi! She’s knitting it for him because he’s  _ special _ !” Petra’s voice was firm and she sounded like she was chiding Miche, even though she was still crouched before the fire and Miche loomed above them all.

Miche was silent, head slightly cocked, eyes narrowed. He was silent for so long that Hange felt her cheeks burn, hot enough for her to know it wasn’t from the fire.

“Uh, Miche, you’re making it weird,” Nanaba said.

He was still silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Eventually Miche nodded, slowly, and blinked a few times.

“Huh,” he said.

“That’s it? ‘Huh?’ That’s all you have to say? You’re not impressed that Hange spent  _ months  _ on this sweater for her true love?” Petra stared at Miche with a horrified expression.

“Wait, Petra, it’s not really like that,” Hange said, sputtering.

“All you women think about is ‘true love’ and ‘romance’ and it’s all bullshit!” Oluo crowed.

“Nobody asked you, Oluo!” Nanaba rolled her eyes and handed Hange her dry sleeve.

“It’s none of my business,” Miche said. “But you’re all in my office and I need to write a report.”

“Please, Miche, they’re almost dry,” Hange said, hoping the pleading look on her face was convincing.

Miche shrugged. “Okay, fine, but you have to knit me another one of these scarves.”

Nanaba jumped to her feet. “You have one already, Miche, you selfish asshole. Besides, Hange already promised me the next one.”

“Hey! Hange told me she’d give me the next one!” Petra glared at Nanaba, outraged.

“I rank higher than all of you, so I’m next,” Miche said.

“No one told me Hange was knitting you scarves! I should get one too,” Oluo said, whining from his place at the corner.

As they argued Hange quietly took the remaining piece from Moblit and tested all four pieces of the sweater. Each was dry; the anxiety that clenched her stomach since yesterday morning finally relaxed. She and Moblit slipped out of Miche’s office, unnoticed, and ran back to her own.

Over the next few hours and multiple cups of tea supplied by Moblit, Hange meticulously sewed the pieces together, careful to keep the stitches tiny and even. She knit the final part, the neckband, and sewed it into place. She held up the sweater, admiring it in the candlelight. It was finished, and it was lovely. She felt something strange, but familiar: the sense of pride at completing something with her own two hands, and the knowledge that she was responsible for each of the thousands of stitches that held the sweater together. Despite the fact that this project was not conducive to her thoughts on Titans, and that she spent most of her time knitting with a mixture of dread, stress, and hope, she realized as she admired her work that a sweater couldn’t possibly be cursed if it gave her so much happiness to finish and imagine him wearing it.

The last time she’d felt so proud was when her mother had run her fingers over the delicate purple sweater and its smooth silver buttons, and said that Hange was a better knitter than she ever was. She’d worn it for the entire week before she died.

Hange sighed, smiled, and looked at her clock. 20:10. Good enough.

***

Hange rushed into Erwin’s office, another ten minutes late. She’d spent seven minutes wrapping the sweater in brown paper and praying it looked halfway decent, and the rest sprinting down stairs and inching across one perilously icy path to Erwin’s office, ignoring the quizzical looks from the other Scouts.

“Sorry I’m late! This was really last minute,” she said immediately, before anyone else could speak. She held up the gift, and held down the nervous laughter threatening to erupt.

Levi looked exactly how she knew he would; he had a cagey look in his eyes, like he was anticipating someone jumping out from behind a curtain to throw confetti in his face and scream about the joys of another year.

He set down his cup of tea into its saucer.

“Now I’ve been here ten minutes longer than I needed to be. And surely this one has better things to do,” Levi said, tilting his head towards Erwin.

Even though he looked exhausted, Erwin smiled. 

“I can spare an hour,” he said.

Levi’s eyes turned to Hange, asking the same question without speaking.

The positive, warm feeling she’d had twenty minutes ago vanished. Hange thought of the countless hours she spent knitting this stupid thing, the late hours, the immense wear on her wrists that kept her from writing and forced her to dictate her thoughts to Moblit. She remembered the skeptical looks on Nababa and Miche’s faces, and worried that maybe this was one huge mistake, and that the sweater had tricked her into thinking that she could make something good enough for him, that she could be good enough for him.

“I, uh, me too,” she said, looking down.

Erwin slid a glass of wine towards her. Hange snatched it and gulped the wine down. She needed it to calm her nerves.

“Levi, aren’t you going to have some wine? I’m afraid to ask what Erwin did to get it,” Hange said, hoping to get his eyes off her.

Levi shrugged. “I’m going for a run after this.”

Hange balked. “On your  _ birthday _ ?”

“Same as any other day,” he said.

Hange and Erwin exchanged a look, but when Erwin’s eyes dropped to the package in her hands, she realized it was finally time.

“Oh, um, here, Levi. It’s for you. For your birthday,” she said, thrusting the gift towards him. Heat rose to her face, and she kept her head down until she knew his eyes were off her and on the package, and then she finally allowed herself to look at his face.

Levi looked surprised, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to make the effort. She remembered suddenly the little she knew about his childhood, and that he probably didn’t get any gifts on his birthday. Growing up Hange loved her own birthday, when her mother always gave her a book wrapped in beautiful patterned paper and made her something sweet for breakfast. Most of them, including her, hadn’t even known when his birthday was until earlier that year on Miche’s birthday when a group of them had split a bottle of whiskey and pestered Levi until he told them. It had taken a solid hour of negotiating to get the answer.

Despite the fact that it broke her heart a little to think of him alone, with no one to give him a gift or even remember what day it was, Hange knew he would hate any pity. So she bit down her sympathy and stepped back, hands clenched together, and waited for him to open it.

Levi took the gift from her and set it down on his lap. He slipped one finger under the paper and tore it open in one smooth motion. He moved the paper aside and looked down at the sweater, folded and pristine, like it hadn’t given her months of worry and two days of frantic hustling and questionable dealmaking.

He looked down at it, and his face transformed. It wasn’t cautious anymore, eyes no longer narrowed as if he thought the whole thing was a waste of time. Instead his eyes softened, the dark shadows under them lightening. His hands were still on the paper, unmoving, as if he thought that touching the sweater might cause it to disintegrate. It was possible it was just a trick of the light, but Hange thought she saw his mouth turn up in the tiniest smile.

“Did you...make this?” he said, voice low.

“I did,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. For a second she was terrified that he thought she’d made entirely too much of an effort, that he’d think she was obsessed with him, which wasn’t entirely true; her feelings towards him were maybe fourth on her list of obsessions, with Titans' reproductive systems being the first-

“How did you do this?” he asked, finger tracing the little cable on the sleeve.

“Oh, well, you use a separate needle to drop one group of stitches off the working needle and then you bring it either behind or in front of the next group-”

“You already lost me.” Levi’s eyes narrowed and shifted to her, but they were not unkind.

Hange gave a small laugh, her anxiety beginning to abate. 

Levi dropped the jacket from his shoulders and folded it up neatly to place it on the table, and he picked up the sweater. Hange felt her heart punch through her ribs. He was trying it on, now, right in front of her! What if she’d made it too big, so that it looked like a dress, or even worse, the sleeves could be too long and the torso too short? There were infinite possibilities, all of them awful.

He brought the sweater up around his neck and adjusted it, smoothing it down over his chest, and thankfully it was the right length but the sleeves were just a little too long, covering his fingers when they shouldn’t have.  _ God, Hange, why didn’t you think of that beforehand, maybe I should have measured his arms in his sleep but goddamnit the man never sleeps, and this cursed sweater will mess up his sword hand and he’ll drop it and then he’ll die-  _

“That fits you well, Levi,” Erwin said, eyebrows raised.

“I guess the sleeves are a little long,” she said, a tiny crack in her voice.

Levi folded the cuffs of the sleeves and dropped both arms down to look at the length.

“No, it’s perfect. I like them better like this,” he said.

All the stress and fear dissolved and Hange was suddenly empty, weightless. She was lighter than air, floating on those words and the soft expression on his face and wonder in his eyes. She could float through everything for the next week, even the next year. Maybe the only curse the sweater brought was all those needless hours of self-doubt.

Levi brought his wrist up to his face to examine the ribbing and the stitches, thousands of tiny interlocking links.

“How’d you get them so  _ even _ ,” he said, quietly, as if he knew he wouldn’t understand the answer. His eyes were transfixed, like he thought it was all held together by some kind of unknowable magic.

“You know, Hange, I’ve been waiting a long time for one of your scarves,” Erwin said, giving her that same disappointed look he always did when she interrupted him to jabber about Titan musculature.

Hange giggled like she was drunk. “You never came over for one!”

“I’m very busy, Hange, I don’t have time to wait in line,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’d prefer navy.”

Hange snickered again. “You wouldn’t believe the waiting list I have now.”

Erwin shrugged. “I’m sure I could do you a favor.”

***

That night, in the women’s barracks, Hange curled up in her bed with only one blanket since hers was still wet, but she didn’t shiver. She was still warm from that evening, and maybe it was the wine, but it was probably the look on Levi’s face when he put on her sweater and realized that someone had put in so much effort and time to make something for him and him alone. Finally, she’d amazed the man who was amazing at everything.

She looked down at her hands, thankful for them, but anticipating the pain in her wrists when she’d have to knit scarves for these impatient Scouts who would hold the favors they did for her over her head.

It was okay, though. It was worth it.  
  



End file.
